


A Bit Later

by MofBaskerville



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Deductions, F/M, M/M, another bar/pub fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-24
Updated: 2012-10-24
Packaged: 2017-11-16 23:42:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/545107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MofBaskerville/pseuds/MofBaskerville
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Greg's in a sticky situation, and Mycroft is in the wrong place at the right time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Bit Later

**Author's Note:**

> This is not exactly a sequel or followup to In Plain Sight. A friend on tumblr had a prompt that required turning the Sherlock-cock-blocks-John trope into Mycroft-cock-blocks-Greg story. I actually think Mycroft would be more tactful so I took that into account. This just happens to be another story that involves a third party and takes place in a pub/eatery.

It could end in a shag, if he wanted it to. That much was clear.

Greg Lestrade ruminated on this as he gulped the remainder of his pint in the cozy little restaurant. The signs were unmistakable, really. The coy glances. The meaningful pauses. The interesting fondling of cutlery. All pointing to one conclusion: namely, that if he played his cards right, there'd be some pretty heavy breathing going on within the hour.

Lestrade reckoned it truly was that obvious. Likely the whole restaurant knew – well, at least the waiter knew, judging by the insinuating smile he wore whenever he fluttered past …

… And here he was, back again. Greg glanced up as he broached the table. Yes. Same smile. And he fancied the bloke had even winked at him.

“Can I get you folks anything else this evening?”

“No, I think we –”

“Er, yeah, I think we –”

Greg came to a full stop as his date stared at him, looking a bit put out. The waiter had dropped the cheeky smirk and was looking just a touch uncomfortable.

“Sorry.” Greg smiled tightly. “I thought maybe … coffee, or something.”

“Oh. Well. If you want.” The voice was doubtful. “I mean, I do _have_ coffee … at mine. If you're interested.”

Greg's eyes widened. The waiter coughed sharply before ordering his features into a blandly polite stare.

_Oh. Wow._

That certainly was … direct.

The waiter coughed again, a bit more discreetly this time.

“Yes. So just the check for you all?”

Greg paused, looking quizzically at the lovely woman opposite him. She stared back, smiling dimly, running her fingertips lightly around the rim of her wineglass.

The waiter coughed yet _again_. Lestrade was on the verge of offering him a lozenge.

“I don't want to put you to any trouble,” Greg said casually. “And they've got great French press here. You still do offer it?”

The woman's expression turned disbelieving, but that was nothing to what the waiter had going on. His mouth dropped open and he stared down at Lestrade as if he'd just pissed all over the tablecloth.

“What?”

“Um. French press …? Coffee? Dark?”

“Oh.” The waiter's eyes briefly darted to the woman. “Yes. Of course. Anything … else?”

Greg looked to his date. “Dessert or anything? You sure?”

She shook her head and the waiter departed, glancing over his shoulder. There was a slightly awkward silence, made even more so by the fact that Greg had nothing with which to occupy his hands. The plates had been cleared, he'd finished his drink. Keeping them in his lap served to remind him of how _un_ -aroused he was at the moment, and that was just depressing. But he knew that if he rested his hands on the table, his fingers would just drum restlessly. He'd not even been aware that he did that in times of stress until Dimmock had not-so-subtly pointed it out to him during a meeting.

His date broke the silence with a brighter smile and a slow exhalation of breath. “So ...”

“So ...” Greg tried to smile back, but he felt as if he had marbles in his jaws.

“This has been lovely.” She glanced around the small cafe. “Wonderful choice.”

“I'm glad you enjoyed it.” His cheeks were beginning to hurt. “I'm sorry about the rabbit. I wouldn't've talked it up if I'd known they didn't have it on the menu anymore.”

“Oh that's all right.” She grinned at him and leaned close. “Next time, maybe? It is a seasonal dish, they said.”

Greg blinked. “Next time. Sure. Right.”

The waiter swept back with cups and a tray with cream, sugar and other accoutrements. The smirk was reborn on his lips. If the bloke tried winking in his direction again, Greg didn't think he could keep from lamping him.

“Do you have a very busy schedule tomorrow?” she asked when they were alone again.

“You know, never can tell,” he said. “Some days there're fewer crazy buggers larking about than others. It's hard to say.

“Oh. I … suppose that's so. Silly question, sorry.”

“No! Not at all.” Greg forced out a chuckle or two. “Sometimes it is a bit dull, but that's rare. You can be pretty sure that somewhere, sometime, someone's killed someone else, tried to kill someone else, or planning to kill someone else. Uh, unfortunately.”

Her expression was somewhat blank, and her smile had dropped notably in wattage. “Yes. Of course.”

"Yes." He nodded somewhat stupidly. "Right."

The woman bit her lower lip, an her next words came out in a rush.

“Greg, would you like to come back to mine tonight?”

Lestrade blinked. “I ...”

“I fancy you,” she said, her frank gaze washing over him. “I'm not really one to be conventional or to follow that silly advice you find on telly about waiting 90 days and that. Seize the day, and that lot. Well?”

Lestrade gulped. This was … not at all unexpected. He wasn't stupid or inexperienced, and she'd been giving him subtle and not-so-subtle signals all night. But her earnestness had caught him off guard, and he felt like the world's biggest twat, suddenly.

He wasn't sure what was wrong with him. Leslie was pretty, a few years younger than himself, divorced, had a successful shop in Bloomsbury. She'd been visiting a neighbor of his next door a few weeks back and they'd gotten to chatting, had a few laughs, and when she'd slipped him her mobile number, Greg had gone about for the rest of the day with the biggest grin on his face. He'd been looking forward to their date and by rights, he should have been chuffed that she was so taken by him that she wanted a tumble.

But …

“That's … uh.” He hadn't missed his wine glass very much until that moment. “I mean, I –”

He got a much-appreciated reprieve when, displaying impeccable timing, their waiter returned with the French press, setting it down between them. The aromatic coffee distracted him briefly, and over the wafting steam, he studied his date.

She was soft and rounded in all the right places, with a lovely, jutting bosom and a nice, pert arse. Greg tried to imagine being in a darkened bedroom, pulling off her top, freeing her breasts to his heated gaze. Thought about what those nimble fingers that had spent much of the dinner teasing her wineglass would do to the head of his cock. Could picture himself hovering over her, hard and quivering, ready to press in –

Greg almost groaned. But not because the sultry images were arousing him. Quite the opposite, actually.

 _What the bloody hell is_ wrong _with me? Tossed off twice just yesterday, and a gorgeous bird is telling me she wants a leg over and it's as soft as mush!_

“Leslie, that's … I ...” Greg rubbed the back of his neck. “I'd be a fool to say no. I fancy you, too. I just … I don't want to be the berk who rushes things and cocks it all up.”

“I don't want to rush, either.” She slid her hand over his, squeezing slightly. “I'd prefer if we went slow. _Very_ slow.”

_Wow._

There didn't seem to be much more to say to that, but Greg was desperately trying to think of _something_ that wouldn't make him sound like a useless, blabbering idiot. He tried to buy time by pouring out a measure of coffee for the both of them, concentrating with all his might on not spilling any despite his shaking hands. He did splash a bit on the pristine tablecloth and he looked up wildly, hoping he'd not gotten any on his date. That was all the evening needed - a trip to the A&E.

And that's when he saw him walk in the door.

He strolled in just as casual as you please, nodding to the hostess. Greg's eyes rounded in shock. Even if he didn't recognize the finely tailored suit and dark-red hair, he'd know that rolled umbrella anywhere.

“What the bloody hell is _he_ doing here?”

Leslie frowned and turned around. “What? Who?”

“Bloke at the door, in the posh suit.”

“Do you know him?”

“Yeah, he … uh … we work together sometimes.” Greg wasn't sure how he could possibly explain Sherlock _or_ his brother to Leslie without using more curse words than was normally polite. “He's … well, it's a bit had to explain.”

“Oh. A colleague, then.” She lost interest and refocused her attentions on him. Her hand was stroking a little more firmly over his. “Now where were we …?

But Lestrade's focus was entirely on the tall red-hared man who had just entered. Greg could not imagine what Mycroft Holmes would be doing in a homey Italian bistro on the edge of Mayfair. He always imagined the government official dining in state, at one of those ridiculously long tables with more cutlery than courses and a candelabra in the middle of it all.

In many ways, the staid bureaucrat looked just a hair out of place. He was dressed in his normal Savile Row finery, which got a few bemused stares from more casually dressed diners. He headed toward the bar, squeezing between a man in faded denims and a jumper that had seen better days, and a hopeful sort kitted out in Man U colors.

Greg couldn't imagine that the elder Holmes was waiting for a date of his own, though anything was possible. He wondered if Mycroft had followed _him_ there for some reason, but that seemed unlikely. Sherlock had gotten into a scrape that afternoon at NSY, but it wasn't anything a bit of diplomacy and a lot of paramecatol couldn't handle. Sherlock had actually been rather subdued - for Sherlock, that was. Greg wondered if John Watson's rumored new girlfriend had anything to do with that.

Lestrade watched Mycroft get comfortable on a stool and make a gesture toward the barman. For a brief second, Greg thought the man had saw him and had given a gesture of greeting, but it was clear that he had not when Mycroft turned away and began studying the sizable list of drinks on special. Greg found himself feeling a bit deflated by the lack of acknowledgement, but he was then struck by a sudden inspiration.

“He's signaling this way.” Greg wiped his mouth. “I think he might be here to see me. Something important, obviously.”

Leslie's face fell and she looked around once more. “But –”

Lestrade was already on his feet. “He's a bigwig … wouldn't do to ignore him. Has pull in the right places at the Yard. I'll just pop over and see what he wants. Hopefully nothing that'll take too long.”

“But –”

"Just a second. Have some of the coffee - it's really lovely stuff."

Greg huffed in relief as he headed toward the bar. He cautioned himself to relax and not jump to any conclusions. This might not have to do with Sherlock after all. The elder Holmes generally rang or texted, anyway, whenever he needed a “favor” to do with his little brother.

Lestrade slowed a little on his approach, a sudden recollection poking at his brain. _Bugger. I have the mobile turned off. He might've been ringing all night. Fuck!_

His heart beat a little faster. He could only imagine what the crisis could be that would bring Mycroft Holmes to this area.

Greg shoved his hands in his pockets when he came abreast of the man. “Oi. Well met.”

When Mycroft turned around, Greg found he could breathe easier. No crisis then. The man was looking at him with unfeigned surprise, and it was clear that he hadn't been following him at all, and was shocked to see him there, if anything. But he hid it rather well after the first unguarded moment, smiling thinly.

“Well met, indeed, Detective Inspector. And how are you this evening?”

“Tolerable. What brings you to this end of town?”

“Finishing up some business,” said Mycroft amiably. “My assistant lives down the road. As I dropped her off, I realized I'd not had anything at all today substantial in the way of food. I was passing by and this seemed a likely spot for a relatively uncomplicated meal. What do you recommend?”

Lestrade clamped his teeth together. Right. This wouldn't work. He couldn't look as if he were at a bloody garden party chatting up the host. He'd told Leslie it could be “important.” Had to look the part, didn't he?”

“The penne alla vodka is good. Er, listen, could you sort of … look a bit anxious?”

Mycroft stared at him. “Pardon?”

“Anxious,” repeated Greg. “Like you've been looking all over for me and there's some situation going on? Bank robbery in progress, maybe? Or hostage situation?”

The elder Holmes squinted at him for a second and then nodded gravely.

“Oh. I see. Your date isn't going as well as you'd hoped, I take it?”

Greg squeezed his eyes shut. _Bloody. Hell._

“I am endeavoring to oblige you in looking anxious, by the way, Detective Inspector.” Mycroft was quiet, but Greg thought he detected a bit of teasing in the cultured voice. “You are doing an admirable job of it yourself.”

“Cheers.” Greg cracked an eye open. “You saw me when you came in then?”

“Not at all. It's rather dark in here. It's a wonder that they don't give out torches at the door.”

“Then how'd you know I'm on a date? Let me guess … the height of my shoe heels? Something about my cuffs?”

“Nothing quite so intricate,” said Mycroft. “Simple deduction, really. You're wearing cologne. In all of our interactions at and around your place of work, I've never known you to wear any scent. I suppose it either puts off your colleagues or you simply are so busy in the mornings you don't think about it. You also have parted your hair differently and there is product in it, also a departure from your normal routine when on duty. And, of course, this is just the sort of establishment for a romantic assignation.”

Greg mulled all of that. “Right. Right, I suppose that all makes sense –”

“Also, your companion is regarding us rather impatiently.” Mycroft's gaze slid over Greg's shoulder. “I don't think she's very keen on the French press.”

Lestrade stiffened. “She's watching us? Are you sure? Petite blonde? Heart-shaped face?”

“The very same.”

“Bugger. All right, um, so hostage situation might be extreme, plus that's the sort of thing you'd see on telly later,” said Greg, speaking more quickly. “How about suspected serial killer?”

“Ah. Because mass murder is not _at all_ extreme.” Mycroft was still looking over Lestrade's shoulder. “Interesting.”

“Okay, okay, sod that. Just … something that would make sense for you to come here to grab me to work on.”

“Hmm.”

“Look, if you help, I'll – I'll do anything you want.”

Mycroft tilted his head. “Anything?”

Greg blanched. That was probably not the best thing to say to someone like Mycroft Holmes.

“Anything, but it has to be strictly legal.”

Mycroft lifted an eyebrow.

“... Okay. _Legalish_.”

The other brow joined it.

Greg sighed wearily. “As long as it doesn't involve destroying evidence, hiding a body, or telling the lads to stand down again while Sherlock's swans about London covered in blood and carrying a fucking _harpoon_ , it can be anything at all. _Please_.”

“Intriguing.” Mycroft nodded once. “Might I mention something, Detective Inspector?”

“Uh, sure. Go on.”

“Well … I just want to point out the lady spent much of the night working up the courage to ask you back to hers. Do you really want to end the evening in this fashion? Wouldn't it be better to simply decline the invitation as gently as possible? She does look like a reasonable woman, as well as an attractive one.”

Gregory Lestrade just stared. He reckoned he should have been used to the Holmes brothers throwing out their “deductions” as facts that were incontrovertibly true and that _everyone_ should already know, but no matter how many times he witnessed it, he still managed to be flummoxed and amazed.

“You … she … how did you _know ..._ ”

Mycroft waved away the barkeep, who didn't look pleased to have someone taking up a stool and not spending any money. Mycroft gave the man a shark-like smile and the burly man, who was at least 10 years younger than the "minor government official" turned quickly and found something else to do at the other end.

“Rather simple, really.” Mycroft shrugged, turning his focus back to Greg. “ _You_ obviously extended the invitation to dinner. That's evident in the care you've taken in your appearance and in picking such a pleasing and romantic setting. You were anticipating this night, clearly. It has, for the most part, gone well. Your table is empty, save for the French press. Dinner, then, was enjoyable and there was nothing alarming until the very end, else you wouldn't have made it all the way to coffee. But for some reason, you wish to bring the night to a close, and you're not above using subterfuge to do so"

Greg winced at hearing it put so baldly as that. "Well, I mean, I know it's not nice to lie, but -"

"Do let me finish, Detective Inspector. You'll have plenty of time for your moral crisis afterward," said Mycroft, sounding a shade amused.

Lestrade grimaced, but he waved at Mycroft to continue. It was times like this that he realized that the elder brother could be only just a bit less annoying than the younger. Only just.

"- Again, as you were the initiator of this night out, that makes little sense – unless you were told something or asked something that put you off. Yet, you're not simply paying the check and leaving. So she obviously didn't confess any sort of criminal activities or moral failing – lying about age, marital status, children. You want to use work as a means to escape the evening,  which indicates that you want a soft way out that won't preclude your asking for a … raincheck of sorts. Conclusion: She's asked you to return to her flat for a nightcap and shagging, and you are, for some reason, not keen, but you don't want to tell her so straight out. Am I wrong?”

Greg's head jerked back. "How  ... what ... uh, no. You're not."

Mycroft looked almost modest and shrugged one shoulder. “I didn't think so.”

"Of _course_ you didn't. You never do, yeah?"

"Poor sportsmanship doesn't suit you, Detective Inspector." Mycroft studied him. "But my question still stands. Wouldn't there be less dramatic ways to bring the evening to a close? Do you not like her?"

“No. I … no. I like her. She seems fun. But I'm not keen to shag her tonight. I'm not sure why, but I'm just not.”

“And you simply can't tell her you're not feeling … up to it?”

Greg laughed in disbelief. “You said yourself it took her all night to work up the nerve. If I say no, she'll take it as me not wanting to at all. And I don't know if I don't want to _at all_. I just know I don't want to, _tonight_. But I don't think I'll ever see her again if I turn her down tonight.”

“Probably not. Very few people want to tread ground they've already covered and have not borne fruit.”

Lestrade shrugged. “Yeah. That. I don't want to lie, but a soft excuse would let us both save face. I wouldn't be, strictly speaking, turning her _down_ , and she'd always be able to tell herself that if I hadn't been called away for work, I might've gone back to hers.”

“I see.” Mycroft's eyes hardened, and he straightened suddenly. “So then you'll come? Immediately?”

“What?” Greg's forehead wrinkled. “What d'you –”

“I have cleared it with the Chief Inspector.” Mycroft's tone was clipped and abruptly businesslike. It was also a bit louder than it needed to be, with Greg practically in his lap. “I know it's rather short notice, however your presence is unarguably necessary.”

“What are you ...” began Lestrade, and then he could smell her perfume. It was so loud in that part of the restaurant that he hadn't heard her footsteps, but obviously from his vantage point, Mycroft had seen her coming their way.

The voice was just a shade hesitant, but the annoyance was clear. “Greg?”

“Leslie!” He shot Mycroft a look of appreciation and understanding. “Sorry. I was just about to come back over. I'm afraid I've some bad news. I've been called in to deal with a bit of a mess. Mr. Holmes was just telling me –”

“Good evening. Mycroft Holmes.” The auburn-haired man gave his most charming smile – the same one Greg reckoned he used at Buckingham Palace – and held out his hand. “Very pleased to meet you, Ms. …?”

“Sorry. Manners.” Lestrade gestured between them. “Mr. Holmes, this is Leslie Frum. Leslie, Mr. Mycroft Holmes.”

“Hello.” She shook his hand gingerly. “You work at New Scotland Yard?”

“Not … directly. My office has dealings with the Met regularly, however.” Mycroft kept up the smile. “I'm sorry to have interrupted your evening, but a regrettable situation has arisen in the Home Office. Detective Inspector Lestrade's expertise is needed, and immediately.”

“Really.” She gave Greg a sideways glance. “How did you know he'd be _here_?”

_Shit. Good fucking question. We've been together all night. She knows I haven't used my mobile. She may even know it's off …_

Greg shot a panicked glance at Mycroft, but the politician wasn't even looking in his direction.

“I tried ringing Detective Inspector Lestrade, but his mobile was quite obviously powered down.”

“Well, I didn't want our conversation interrupted, did I?” put in Lestrade, trying to look affronted at the very idea. Leslie gave him an odd look, but Mycroft didn't so much as shift his eyes.

“Quite. So I was able to contact Sergeant Donovan. She mentioned that she happened to overhear your making reservations here.”

Mycroft quickly pivoted, smiling beatifically at Greg. “Please don't be too harsh with Ms. Donovan. She didn't want to alert me to your whereabouts, but I impressed upon her the importance of the situation.”

“Right. No worries on that. Donovan's a good sort.” Greg turned apologetically to Leslie. “I'm so sorry. Can't be helped, it sounds like.”

“Yes. A nasty bit of business,” Mycroft interjected smoothly. “I was just going over the particulars with the Detective Inspector. As soon as I've received the call from the task force, we'll have to depart immediately.”

“Right. I'll just settle the check.” Greg tried to infuse his voice with regret. “I'll go out and find you a cab –”

“That's quite all right.” The woman's voice was frosty and she was studying Lestrade narrowly. “I think I'd rather walk home.”

Greg glanced at Mycroft, who was looking on impassively, his eyebrows just a tick higher than normal.

“No, don't be silly –”

“I don't think I'm the one being silly, Greg.” There was a significant pause, and she shouldered her purse. “Good night, then.”

“Uh ...” Greg turned as she made to walk away. “I'll – I'll call you.”

Leslie smirked and walked on, not even letting the door swing shut behind her as she walked out into the London night.

Greg looked after her, his gut knotting up. “Fuck.”

“Not tonight, apparently,” said Mycroft laconically, studying his nails.

Lestrade gave him a sharp look, but his shoulders rounded in disgust. “She _made_ us. How? I thought it was well done – nice one pinning it on Sally. I really didn't have a way of explaining how you came across me here. But she _knew_!”

“Intelligent woman, that,” answered Mycroft. “Do have a seat, Detective Inspector.”

Greg was still dazed by the turn of events. “I've … I've got to pay the bill.”

“It can be done from here. Sit.” Mycroft beckoned to the barkeep, who all but ran over. “A glass of Barolo, if you please.” He glanced at Greg slumping on the seat next to him. “And something strong for my companion. Quickly.”

Greg heard little of the talk around him, but was aware that Mycroft must have said something about his bill, as it materialized at his elbow. Interestingly, the coffee hadn't made it onto the check. Listlessly, he paid and when his slip was handed back, he saw a squat glass waiting for him right beside it. A glance to the side showed Mycroft gingerly sipping his own libation.

“Scotch. Neat.” Mycroft put down his glass. “You look as if you could use it.”

“Right. That'll make the night complete, yeah? Getting pissed.” Lestrade pulled a distressed face. “How did she know it was all bollocks? That's what I want to know. _How_?”

“I must admit, Detective Inspector, that I don't quite know that she divined that the excuse was a false one,” said Mycroft. “She only knew that you had no further desire to be in her company.”

“But _how_? I even offered to get her a cab!”

Mycroft half smiled. “You were not eager to get out of your … obligation. She was watching us almost the entire time we spoke. Not once did you go for your mobile.”

“So? What's that prove?”

“Detective Inspector, our cover story was that some unspecified 'threat' required your immediate attention. You only had my word to go on. You are on a 'hot' date with a woman who has made it clear that she wants to shag. Anyone else would be ringing hither and yon, trying to determine if this were a _true_ emergency, and if so, could it be entrusted to anyone else. I mentioned having spoken to Sergeant Donovan, yet you didn't ask me if _she_ had been consulted or if there was another DI on duty – obviously, that couldn't be you, as you had your mobile off all of this evening. In all, you didn't seem too bothered that you had to end your night prematurely to work. Only the most dense of persons could fail to misread the meaning of that, and this woman is, as I said, rather clever.”

Greg took a stiff quaff of his drink. “She's losing my number as we speak, right?”

“It was very likely deleted  as she walked out the door.”

“Fuck.” Lestrade glared into the glass. “Good scotch, this.”

“All might not be lost, however. She may give you another chance if you ring her with an abject apology.” Mycroft was contemplating the contents of his own glass. “It would have to be sincere, of course.”

Greg considered this. Sighed.

“Maybe. I don't know. Maybe I wasn't as keen as I thought.”

“Obviously not, or you'd be in bed with her right now.”

The detective nodded very slowly. “Right. Yeah. There's that.”

“May I ask what it is that put you off about her?” An inquisitive glint lit Mycroft's blue-grey eyes. “She seemed the type you would enjoy getting to know … _better_ , as it were.”

“Ordinarily. I guess so.” Greg put the glass down and sighed heavily. “I just wasn't into it tonight. Performance anxiety, maybe.”

“... Performance? You mean … you'd fear things would …” Mycroft paused as he seemed to search for words to frame the thing delicately. “Er … things would _end_ before they began, so to speak?”

Greg took another healthy swig and almost laughed. “No. I mean, like things wouldn't even get _started_. Follow me?”

The auburn-haired man nodded. “Oh, yes. I understand. … Are you quite sure?”

“I was all but shagging her at the table – in my mind, I mean. Nothing happened.” Greg slid the bureaucrat a meaningful look. “ _Nothing_.”

“Ah.”

“Right.”

They both went quiet, nursing their drinks. Lestrade looked over to where he and Leslie had been sitting. It had been cleared and another couple was sitting there, both of them chatting somewhat stiffly. Each time the man tried to study the menu, the woman would say something to make him look up. Lestrade could tell it was annoying the bloke.

He continued to watch them as Mycroft's politely detached voice washed over him.

“They're both married – to other people. Both are weary of their affair, but aren't sure how to end it. The man isn't certain he can find another lover whom he can trust to not want more from him. The woman is simply too busy to search. They work together. She is his superior, so they can easily explain away the time they spend together. I think his wife knows but it is almost certain her husband does not.”

Greg turned bodily toward Mycroft, pinning him with a look that was part amazed and part 'are you going to do this all night?'

“Apologies. Simply making conversation.”

“Right. To put it out of your mind that I just admitted not being able to keep the end up.” Greg laughed bitterly. “God. This is great scotch. Must be part pissed already that I'm discussing my cock with Mycroft Holmes.”

Mycroft's expression didn't change. “You're not discussing your … _that_ , Detective Inspector. You are commenting on an issue that is obviously worrisome to you. I can understand.”

“Yeah? It's happened to you then?”

Greg fancied he saw Mycroft blushing.

“Not as such … but there have been times that I overestimated my attraction to a potential partner with predictably disappointing results. But somehow, I don't think that is what we're dealing with here.”

“I guess ... no. I guess it isn't.”

"Something else then, less in the physiological range and more in the psychological one?"

Greg pondered that. "So you mean something more in my head and not in my pants?"

Mycroft smiled. "You do have a lovely way with words, Detective Inspector."

Lestrade sighed. "Can we give over the titles for one night? I've just buggered up one of the most normal dates I've ever had, and I'm getting drunk on scotch that probably costs more than what I paid for dinner."

"You overestimate me," said Mycroft, swirling his wine. "The prices here are quite reasonable. A very good selection on your part, from what I can tell."

Greg's mouth twisted into a wry grin. "Why do I have the feeling you just called me a cheap bastard?"

Mycroft moved his head slowly, and Greg frowned at the sudden remoteness in the slatey eyes.

"I've no idea, Detective Inspector, seeing as I called you nothing of the sort and meant no such thing."

Greg's smile dropped and he felt the briefest bit ashamed. He'd tried to use Mycroft for his own purposes and the man had gamely played along. It wasn't his fault it had blown up, and Greg reckoned that it might be nice if he could act less like a twat to at least one person that night.

"Sorry. I ... I'm not happy with myself. You were right. She was right. I acted a right git. Like a kid trying to get out of a test." He stared into his glass. "I should have just told her I didn't fancy a night up."

"Which brings me back to my original question as to why you asked her to dine with you in the first place." Some of the ice had thawed from Mycroft's expression and he was sipping his wine again. "Surely you understood things could move in that direction?"

"Technically? Sure. But no bloke _really_ expects a shag the first go. Well, not unless there's some kind of arrangement beforehand."

"But you were attracted to the young lady?"

"What?" Greg looked askance. "Oh. Well, not so much. I mean, she was only a few years younger than me. Maybe about your age ..."

"I repeat ... you were attracted to the young lady?" Mycroft wasn't bothering to camouflage his amusement. They both laughed.

"I was. It seems so stupid now." Lestrade shook his head. “A few weeks before I met Leslie … I found out my ex had moved her boytoy in our old flat. It got to me. Not because I want her back. God no. But because I reckoned I would've moved on, too, by now. It's been almost four months since the divorce was settled and almost a year since we separated to begin with. She's shagging her bloke and I hadn't even so much as smiled at a pretty bird in the queue at Tesco's. So I meet Leslie, and she's keen and I thought _I_ was keen, and that I was ready to get back out there.”

“Perhaps you are,” said Mycroft. “It might be different with someone who takes _your_ needs into consideration as well as their own."

"How's that?"

"Well, not to be crude, but I'm certain you made it clear several times during the course of the night that you didn't expect things to end in the bedroom, yet Ms. Frum insisted on pushing the point."

“Yeah, well, you don't need to be _you_ or Sherlock to be able to tell it's been a bit since she's had a shag.”

"Oh. So you sensed that it might be just ... scratching an itch?"

"No. Not really that," said Greg. “She could have just about any bloke if she just wanted a toss. She fancied me, she's a woman who knows what she wants and she went for it. That's all well and good … I just … the timing just wasn't right. It would've been a right mess. Awkward for her and humiliating for me.”

“Then you made the right choice, albeit the execution left a bit to be desired, perhaps.”

“No kidding." Greg scowled. "I still think we were pretty good, you know, to come up with something right off the top of the head like that.”

"I find myself having to improvise quite a bit in my work, and I know you must do the same."

"Yeah, I'm generally improvising my arse off when explaining to the CI just why the hell Sherlock was traipsing around a classified crime scene."

"No doubt that's his high point of the day."

"Yeah, I can tell by the way the veins pop out in his neck that he's tickled pink." Greg paused. “I mean it, you know.”

Mycroft looked at him. “I'm sorry?”

“I said I'd do anything if you helped, and you did – even though it didn't come off the way I might've liked.” Greg smiled gently. “I'm a man of my word. So you ever need anything, just … you know … ring me.”

Mycroft Holmes slowly put down his wine goblet and fixed Greg with an inscrutable stare.

“Detective Inspector, while I appreciate your offer … all I need is for someone to corral my wayward brother when he strays off the path – something you and Dr. Watson have done admirably.”

“Yeah, well, that's for Sherlock. I'm talking about _you_. What can I do for _you_?”

The politician smiled gently. “I don't exaggerate, Mr. Lestrade, when I say that there is little I need and entire mechanisms in place to oblige me when I find myself wanting. I mean no offense, but there is nothing whatever that you could conceivably do for me that I cannot have done with the press of a button.”

Lestrade half-grinned. “Maybe. But some things need more than just a button to be pressed, yeah?”

As soon as the words were out of his mouth, Greg froze.

_What the fuck am I going on about … that sounded like I was … Jesus what is in this bloody scotch?_

“I have no doubt that's true, Detective Inspector,” said Mycroft with a small smile. “I have no doubt.”

Red-faced, Greg drained his glass, keeping watch on Mycroft out of the corner of his eye. He had the sneaking suspicion that Mycroft knew he was being watched. Greg wondered whether he should venture saying something else to the man or leave well enough alone. Maybe talk about blood spatter. That seemed safe.

Long fingers gestured toward his empty glass. “Would you like another?”

“No, this was enough. Thanks.” Greg felt for his billfold, frowning when Mycroft waved him off. “C'mon. I can at least pay for both our drinks, considering.”

“It's quite all right, Detective Inspector. I've opened a tab.” Mycroft squinted at the blackboard behind the bar, where the specials of the day were scrawled in an unsteady hand. “The penne alla Vodka, did you say?”

“Uh, yeah. I had it. It was good. Had a nice pancetta in it, too.”

“It does sound delicious.” Mycroft sighed softly. “But regrettably, it would wreak havoc on my diet, so I will have to pass.”

Greg looked incredulously at the long, lean man beside him. “Look, you're not fat, you know. You do realize that Sherlock's built like a cadaver and that's not normal. John tells me he barely eats.”

“Very true. Sherlock was never much enamored of food, even as a child,” mused Mycroft. “At any rate, I believe he and John have the remnants of a Thai feast at Baker Street, where I'm bound in a few moments. I'm sure they'd welcome you, as well.”

Lestrade grunted noncommittally. It was always nice to visit with John and even see what the consulting detective was up to, but he wasn't sure tonight would be a good idea. Sherlock deducing his entire evening was not what Greg considered an optimal visit with friends. It was different when Mycroft did it. Mycroft had the skills and tact of a diplomat.

Sherlock … didn't. Remotely. At all.

“Thanks, but I better be getting home. Something tells me I'm going to have a rough day tomorrow, if today's anything to go by.” He slid down from the stool and discreetly stretched his legs. “Cheers for the drink. And the help. And the talk. They were all ace.”

Mycroft turned slowly on his stool, resting his hands on his thighs. He gazed at Greg silently for a few moments, and Lestrade shifted from one foot to the other, feeling a bit like a specimen under a microscope, though he was aware that he didn't exactly mind being the focal point of Mycroft's attention.

“Will you be calling the young lady to make it up? I'm simply curious. As I said, you likely would be successful, but you'd have to be absolutely sincere.”

Greg paused for a moment, then shook his head.

“No, I think I'll just leave it. She'll be fine. Some lucky bloke will snap her up just like that. Bad timing, and all. Might've been good if we'd met a bit later, but who knows.”

“Mmm.” Mycroft pursed his lips. “You might do well to remember what I've said – the right person will be flexible, and will understand your reticence in some matters and will go at _your_ pace.”

Greg met the look levelly. “And I hope you remember what _I've_ said. You ever want to collect on what I owe you, you have my number.”

Mycroft nodded. “I do, at that. Anything I like. Barring harpoons.”

“Yeah.” Greg's voice was rough and he could feel the burn of the alcohol clear to his stomach. “Anything.”

The auburn-haired man nodded slowly. “I will keep that in mind. For … _a bit later_ , perhaps.”

Greg's eyes snapped wide. “Uh, yeah. A bit later might be just about right.”

“Indeed.” Mycroft turned around, but not before Greg could see the smile curving his lips. “Good evening, Detective Inspector.”

“Right. Good evening.”

Lestrade stood there a moment, poised in indecision, his lips gouging at each other. He turned away after a few moments and trudged out the door.

When he glanced in the window of the tiny eatery, he saw Mycroft on his mobile, chatting animatedly while running his fingertips around his wine glass much as Leslie had done earlier. It produced quite a _different_ effect, however, and Greg caught his breath, not sure whether to rave, curse, or get back into the restaurant, pull the bureaucrat off his stool and snog his brains out.

Greg took out his own mobile and scrolled through his contacts. Reaching the “L's,” he smiled with slight regret as he deleted Leslie's contact information. That done, he flicked his thumb and he was well into the “M's,” stopping at **MYCROFT HOLMES** and staring at the words for several long seconds. Biting his lip, he pressed the messaging function and typed furiously for a few moments before shoving the phone into his back pocket and wandering off to grab a cab.

* * *

 

Mycroft was in the middle of explaining to his brother just why it was imperative that he go to Bucharest and speak with the exiled duke when he noticed the small envelope indicating that he had a text waiting. Assuring Sherlock that it would be pointless to argue, he rang off to read the new message.

**A bit later might be next year. Or next month. Or it could even be next week. Like Saturday next, for example. Around 7. Anyway, my offer still stands regardless of whenever it is. - GL**

The auburn-haired man read the message once again and grinned. He made a mental note to ask Anthea to make reservations for the following Saturday at the Cypriot restaurant that he'd just discovered. He reckoned it was just as atmospheric as the restaurant in which he was sitting, but without the uncomfortable connotations.

His reply was swift and to the point.

**I see. Do keep me informed. I will be in touch. - MH**

Mycroft spared a thought for the Detective Inspector's unfortunate date, and he was somewhat amazed that he did not feel the level of jealousy he'd expected. After all, Greg _had_ been attracted to her, and if she'd been a bit more patient, she might have gotten her prize.

He considered it a moment, and shrugged. He supposed it was down to the fact that he felt a native kinship with the woman, in a way. Here was a person who'd crossed paths with Gregory Lestrade and had wanted to drag him off to bed right off. Mycroft couldn't fault the poor woman for that. Not a bit.


End file.
